almost okay

Dear Lyzako,

With the changing of the seasons here in southeast lower Michigan comes the return of Eastern Standard Time, shorter days and falling temperatures. I spent my extra hour on Sunday soaking my dazed and broken body in a tub of hot water while I knocked off the last of my latest read, Henning Mankell's 'Faceless Killers'. The sun was slanting in from the south and the furnace threw warm, dry air into the room at half-hour intervals while I deftly worked the taps with my feet to keep the water steaming. All in all, it was a relaxing way to spend the morning.

About forty-five minutes into my soak I felt the urge to fart, squeaked out a series of gurgling bubbles which tickled my scrotum as they rose to the surface and brought a smile to my face. It felt good. It smelled bad. The water between my legs turned a murky brown. Oops!

After draining the tub and showering off, I got dressed, opting to forgo a shave, splashed on a little cologne and was on my way to live yet another uneventful Sunday, the sun shining and the air much warmer than I had expected for early November. I was hungover, to be sure, a numbing warmth in my head and dull pain behind my eyes. But all seemed right with the world as I ate my Delmar 'Special Breakfast' of eggs over medium, American fries, ham, bacon, sausage (three different kinds of pig!) and wheat toast. I declined coffee, having drunk an entire pot of it by that time, ordered a large tomato juice instead, into which I shook a quarter teaspoon of ground black pepper and several squirts of tabasco. I also drank a large ice water to aid in re-hydration.

The food was good, but the service, as always at Delmar, was lackluster at best, the waitresses stressing out and yelling orders over the counter to the guys in the kitchen. Behind me a conversation was taking place between two gentlemen, the topics ranging from antique fly rods to fluctuations in the stock market.

“That's what they call a dead cat bounce,” said Dr. Freddie in reference to a recent drop in value of the Dow Jones which was subsequently followed by a feeble gain the next day. “Right? Like you can drop a cat off of a skyscraper and it will bounce, but never get back as high as it was. You see? A dead cat bounce...ha ha ha.”

As to the antique fly fishing equipment, it seemed that Dr. Freddie had recently sold some particularly valuable items via the Internet - including a bamboo rod from the forties, for well over $3500, which he then converted into silver dollars.

“Which would you rather have,” asked Dr. Freddie of his breakfast mate, “Three-thousand dollars worth of silver or an antique fly rod?”

The other guy said something which I couldn't make out.

“Naturally,” said Dr. Freddie. “In other words, you can't buy anything with an antique fly rod, you see.”

“Yes,” said his friend, “and the antique isn't even something that you can use anymore. It's just for purposes of exhibition.”

“That's exactly right,” said Dr. Freddie. “Just for exhibition.”

Along about then, the waitress came by to see if they were ready to order.

“Yes,” said Dr. Freddie. “I'll have a Greek salad... I can order a salad this early, can't I?”

“Of course we'll make you a salad, Dr. Freddie,” said the waitress in her sweetest voice.

“Okay, a Greek salad, no onions, no feta cheese and no...no...”

“No lettuce,” said his friend. “Ha ha ha.”

“No lettuce. That's funny,” said the waitress. Even I smirked a little at the joke.

“Right,” said Dr. Freddie. “No lettuce. No, I want a Greek salad, no onions, no feta and no dressing.”

“No dressing?” asked the waitress.

“I'm on a diet,” said Dr. Freddie. I couldn't hear what his friend ordered. At some point towards the end of the meal their conversation turned back towards investments and possessions.

“Put all your money in gold,” advised Dr. Freddie. “Forget real estate and all this other junk.”

“Ultimately we don't really own anything,” said his friend. “It's all just here for us to use temporarily, then pass on. So why be burdened with the idea of owning anything? Even stock and gold?”

Dr. Freddie didn't have an answer for that one.

I don't have an answer, either. Obviously, Dr. Freddie's friend is right. But I have to admit that what little I do own creates an area of comfort for me... my books, my records, my little mementos of the past, my Pam Grier swag. I've joked that upon my passing I want to make sure these things find good homes... my books to you, my comic collection to Louis, my records to whoever is foolish enough to accept the offer... so the things can continue to do that job of easing somebody else's pain, making somebody else feel a little more comfortable in an increasingly ugly and confusing world.

A house, a car, a time-share in Hawaii... those kinds of possessions don't interest me in the least, for some reason.

After breakfast I made the rounds... Royal Oak Flea Market, Classic Books, Street Corner Music. I looked at a lot of stuff, found a number of interesting 'things' as a matter of fact, handled them, wanted to add them to my comforting collection, but after the overheard conversation at breakfast, I was feeling the burden of the shelves and shelves of stuff I already own.

So, for the first time in many a Sunday I bought nothing. Luckily for you, that probably adds up to one or two fewer books on modern art that you'll have to get rid of some day.

Sincerely,
J. Paul Sherman